


Body Electric

by shealwaysreads (onereader), tackytiger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Body Swap, Dual POV, Frottage, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nudity, Oblivious, POV Alternating, Potions Accident, Scars, Sexy Massage, Tattoos, idiots to lovers, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24541303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/pseuds/tackytiger
Summary: What's a little body swap among friends?Because that's what Harry and Draco are now—sort of, anyway, though Harry keeps getting distracted by Draco's forearms, and Draco can't stop thinking about how good Harry smells.But when a potions explosion and two do-gooding Aurors collide, Harry and Draco discover things about each other that they could never have predicted.After all, seeing the world through each other's eyes allows them to really get the measure of each other.And notjustinthatway.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 42
Kudos: 885





	Body Electric

**Author's Note:**

  * For [porcelainheart3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelainheart3/gifts).



> For porcelainheart3 in celebration of her birthday - you're a gift, and a joy, and we love you! ❤️
> 
> This is a collaboration (our first ever) and we had a ball writing this together, we took one POV each and loved how our shared vision of Harry and Draco came true, and we hope it's as fun to read as it was to craft!
> 
> Title gratefully borrowed from Walt Whitman's _I Sing The Body Electric_

Bloody Williamson, and his bloody leaving do, and his bloody shameless pressure to get everyone there; up to and including dark suggestions of exposing certain admissions made under accidental doses of industrial strength Veritaserum. Bastard.

And bloody Potter, too. Insisting they head down to the Leaky together; as though a couple of shared call-outs, and near-death experiences—and that one night at the pub with a Firewhisky too many when Potter had leaned into his side, all heat, and dark lashes, and the heavy scent of sandalwood—made them, what? _Friends_? Tosser.

Eyes lingered on them as they marched past in a swirl of scarlet robes and authority, pleasing that dark part of Draco that had always craved respect. His perennial irritation overtook, however, at the inevitable cow-eyed looks of adoration that followed Potter’s every step. Draco held himself back from sniping with the slender thread of restraint afforded him by the sure knowledge that after serving his time at the Leaky, he could go home, and not see a single wild curl or glint of fierce green eyes for an entire weekend.

Shops were closing around them; shutters clattered down, baskets neatly stacked themselves, and brooms swept the cobbles clean. Only George Weasley’s monstrosity was still busy—and not with customers. Flashes of orange light, and a loud yelp from the first floor window were Draco’s first clues that the surviving Weasley twin was indulging in his standard ‘experimentation’ phase. The dense purple smoke that began to shoot from the chimney was unusual though, and the high pitched banshee-wail that began screaming higher and higher brought him and Potter to a tense stand-still in front of the shop.

A group of older witches doddered along behind Draco, and a gaggle of what looked like soon-to-be Hogwarts first years in Diagon for their school shopping were gathered around Weasley’s shop front, all wide-eyed, and round-cheeked.

“Potter.” Draco nodded toward the screeching window, now spewing orange sparks from its casement, his voice tight with warning.

Those dark brows flattened into a scowl; Potter’s focus was immediate and intense as ever. “Shield the street, Malfoy, I’ll go in and grab George.”

He wasn’t about to argue while vulnerable pedestrians were wandering unprotected in front of what increasingly resembled an imminent explosion. But one day Draco would just fucking Incarcerous Potter if he decided to unleash this particular brand of infuriating recklessness, and expect Draco to wait behind and just _watch_ him get himself blown up.

“ _Protego Maxima_!” Draco shouted. His magic sculpted silver-shining walls of protection as powerful as the force of his will around the still-milling idiots of Diagon Alley, restraining and defending them in equal measure. Potter approached the locked door to the joke shop, shouted through for George, and then wandlessly cast Alohomora when a series of ominous bangs were the only response. Fucking show-off.

Glass cracked above their heads, the delicate atonality set Draco’s teeth on edge, and worry overtook his annoyance. His heart thundered painfully in his chest as he looked at Potter. He hadn’t shielded himself, the idiot, and Draco didn’t have the energy to cast another Protego without exposing the children—now wide-eyed and enthusiastically pointing at the bulging window panes above them—to whatever Weasley-flavoured nonsense was about to spill out into the street.

“Potter— _Potter_ —look out!”

The reckless bastard just looked back at him, instead of casting—not even wandlessly—so Draco made the only logical decision available to him. He leapt at Potter, bearing him down to the cobbles, and hoped his own body would cover his exposed face and hands.

The potion was hot when it hit him, almost scalding, and Draco hissed as it seeped through his heavy Auror uniform in moments. His attempt to shelter Potter from the worst of the blast was inadequate in the extreme; Potter’s face was slick with it when Draco pushed himself up onto his knees to look down at him. He was panting, eyes dazed, and shimmering golden liquid was already clinging his lashes together, glossing his cheek, his lips. Draco swallowed, hard, at the sight, before gathering himself.

“You fucking pillock, Potter.”

* * *

If someone had told Harry that he’d start the night tangled up in Draco Malfoy, he’d have had higher hopes for a better time than he was currently experiencing.

Not that he _fancied_ Malfoy, of course, but if Harry ever _had_ imagined what it would be like to get all wrapped up in Malfoy, it would have involved fewer clothes, and a bed, and a very different sort of sharing of fluids.

And even if Harry _had_ been enjoying having Malfoy on top of him, so close that Harry could count the faint band of freckles across the bridge of his nose, with Malfoy’s sweet-smelling hair forming a silky curtain around their too-close faces—well, the uncomfortable wet seep of potions residue soon put paid to that. Seeing George in the background wringing his hands and looking worried—not a good sign, when the unflappable George Weasley seemed perturbed—was also something of a mood-killer. Harry sighed.

Malfoy heaved himself off Harry, and then hauled Harry up unceremoniously after him. Their palms stuck together unpleasantly with the gluey potions residue, before Malfoy unpeeled his hand from Harry’s and then used it to make a distinctly rude, if decidedly expressive, gesture.

Harry was fairly certain that the word Malfoy’s mouth kept forming was, “Fuck,” but he couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Judging by the ferocious expression on Malfoy’s face, it was probably just as well for Harry that he couldn’t make out what Malfoy was saying.

And really, it wasn’t as though it was Harry’s fault, was it? Malfoy was the absolute twat who had jumped right into the path of the bloody great potion deluge. If he had stayed where he was, like Harry had told him, it would be just Harry who was splattered in some sort of revolting concoction, smelling faintly of powdered lacewing flies and in desperate need of a Firewhisky or four.

Once Malfoy looked like he had wound down a bit, Harry gingerly unholstered his wand, gave it a wipe to get off the worst of the spillage, and cast the auror-standard Auribus Reparo charm. He winced at the all-too-familiar sensation of his eardrums knitting back together.

Malfoy had at least turned his wrath on George, and was scribbling notes in his charmed fieldbook—which meant that Robards was going to be on their arses within about three minutes and Harry was _not_ looking forward to that—while issuing orders in his crispest, most terrifying voice. Even George looked a bit pale.

“... going to need a full breakdown of all ingredients, plus a sample for testing,” Malfoy finished.

“Certainly, Malfoy,” George said, entirely too agreeably for Harry’s comfort. “And you… ahem… you feel alright? No odd sensations? Nothing unusual?”

“Just the tingling one might expect from being doused in something which, judging by its colour, has had an over-liberal application of powdered bicorn.” Malfoy casts an unimpressed look back over his shoulder at Harry. “Potter? Any ill-effects to report?”

There was definitely tingling alright, like a prickle of something foreign under Harry’s skin. But the tingling seemed to be getting stronger, now that Harry thought about it. Really, it was becoming more of a sizzle, or maybe even a burn. Harry wondered if he should be worried, and when he noticed the grimace on Malfoy’s face, he realised that he definitely should be.

And then the burn became something searing, whitehot and so agonising that Harry was brought to his knees with it, and he closed his eyes against the pain. And just as suddenly, the pain mercifully subsided, and Harry staggered to his feet to check on Malfoy.

Only, something was clearly quite terribly wrong, because where Malfoy had been standing was someone who looked very like—well, exactly like—Harry himself, only Harry was pretty sure that he had never looked quite that murderous before.

George’s expression was simultaneously horrified and delighted, and Harry slowly raised his hands—his pale, elegant hands—and managed to gasp out a succinct yet fervent, “What the fuck?”

It came out sounding posh and pissed off and dangerous and exactly like… well, exactly like Malfoy.

“Right,” George said brightly. “On the plus side, at least you’re a similar size, so your clothes still fit. But the—fairly significant, I’ll admit—downside is that you two have probably swapped… well, swapped bodies.”

* * *

_Robards. Incident on Diagon Alley: Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. Myself and Auror Potter on the scene when explosion occurred (off-duty). We took control of scene, Protego Maxima shielded civilians, G. Weasley unharmed. Auror Potter and I dosed with experimental potion, immediate effect: tingling. Sincerely, Auror Malfoy_

**Malfoy, sending on-duty patrol to take over processing the scene. Please give Mr Weasley an expression of my personal displeasure at what is his fifth incident this year, and warn him I will be personally investigating his licensing if it happens again. Attend St Mungos with Auror Potter directly, I expect a medical report on my desk within the hour. R.**

_Robards. Secondary potion effect: exchange of corporeal form. I now appear to all intents and purposes to be Auror Potter, and vice versa. Assured by Mr Weasley this is the intended outcome, though no such assurances about duration of potion. It is neither Polyjuice nor Transfiguration. Advise. D.M_

**Malfoy, are you telling me you have swapped bodies? Have members of the public seen you? Who is aware? R.**

_No, Sir, we moved inside Weasley’s shop as soon as the explosion was over. Auror Potter is highly disinclined to attend the hospital. As am I. I have inspected G. Weasley’s notes and suggest waiting a prudent 24 hours before taking further action. D.M_

**Malfoy, I know very well that Potter would like to bugger off to the pub, but if a single member of the press realises that the body of the boy-who-bloody-lived-twice is currently swanning around with a Malfoy in it then there will be hell to pay. R.**

_What exactly is it you want us to do then, Sir? D.M_

**From now, until this is resolved, you will behave as though you are Harry Potter. And he will pretend to be you. I’m well aware he will argue. Tell him to owl me once he’s home, at your residence. R.**

* * *

Harry pressed his—Malfoy’s—strong, capable fingers into the coiled knot of tension at the base of his skull.

What a bloody day. All he wanted was to go home, lie in his big lovely bath for as long as he had the energy to keep spelling the water hot, and then sleep. But Malfoy was at his house, probably poking around in his cupboards and drinking the good Firewhisky and being all Malfoyish about the quality of Harry’s bed-making.

And instead Harry was here, in Malfoy’s flat, in Malfoy’s _body_ , and he didn’t really know what to do with himself in either of them.

_Fucking George_ , he thought, not for the first time tonight.

Still, Malfoy’s flat was… well, much nicer than Harry had been expecting. It was definitely a bit posh, but there was a lot less mahogany furniture, carved family crests, and murderous Dark objects than might have been expected from someone who grew up in Malfoy Manor. Instead, he had lots of books and a velvet couch that Harry had actually stroked when he saw it, and his bed was huge and made up with fresh, fragrant white linens that had Harry already anticipating a delicious night’s sleep.

Which sounded like a good idea, really, because it was late and Harry was tired and pissed off, and sleep would at least let him forget for a few hours that he was trapped in Malfoy’s distracting, nice-smelling body with no way out.

He started to undress, methodically, carefully not looking in the enormous full-length mirror ( _honestly, Malfoy_ ) that stood across from the big bed. They’d left their sodden outer robes at the shop for the clean-up crew to analyse, so he was only wearing Malfoy’s beautifully tailored trousers, and a white shirt that had been perfectly pressed before Harry took over Malfoy’s body and managed to rumple it.

It was odd, moving in Malfoy’s body: feeling the smooth slide of his stomach muscles when Harry undid the button at his waistband; seeing long, pale thighs instead of his own dark, muscled ones when he pushed his trousers down.

The shirt hid the real surprise though.

As Harry tugged it off, he was distracted by the ruined stain of the Mark on his left forearm. When he thought about it, he could even feel it—that slight, sick, throbbing echo of Voldemort’s magic. But that wasn’t a big deal—Harry, of all people, knew how to deal with that.

But under the Dark Mark, inked in a sprawling, expansive copperplate type, was the single word _Nox_. Curious, Harry pressed a finger to the tattoo. He hadn’t noticed it before—and he had definitely seen Malfoy’s bare arms, he distinctly remembered getting distracted by the strong flexing lines of tendon and muscle (which turned Malfoy holding a pint glass into an art form) at Luna’s birthday party in the beer garden at the Cloak and Cauldron a few weeks before.

Malfoy must keep it glamoured, Harry thought, and he stroked the letters as he whispered, “ _Nox_ ”, wondering what significance the spell had for Malfoy, and why he’d keep the tattoo hidden when he left the Mark on show for everyone to see.

As he spoke, Harry felt the cool swell of Malfoy’s magic—and he’d know the feel of it anywhere, after all these years—gather and pulse in the curving lines of the script. _A spelled tattoo_? Harry had heard of them, but the charmwork involved was notoriously difficult. He watched, fascinated, as a spreading patch of darkness swirled around the Mark before settling over it, obliterating it.

Harry felt his heart clench with that bloody inconvenient tenderness he always felt when people at work made rude comments about Malfoy, or shopkeepers refused to serve him, or that one terrible time when someone had spat on him on the street. Malfoy never said a word, but Harry knew how hard he worked to make up for all the things he had done in school.

Harry had never thought about it much before, but now he wondered how it must feel for Malfoy to have to walk around with a permanent reminder of his own stupidity, his own cowardice, his own wrongdoing, emblazoned on his skin. And even now the respite was short; the little patch of night was already fading from his arm, the grim lines of the Mark emerging again, fuzzy and indistinct.

There was a _Lumos_ inked on the other wrist, Harry saw now, in that same confident handwriting. Feeling a bit guilty, he pressed the word and whispered the spell. It felt intimate, like a violation of something small and private and entirely Malfoy’s, but Harry couldn’t help himself.

It wasn’t like earlier, when he had gone for a piss and looked down as he unzipped to watch Malfoy’s long, deft fingers wrap around his cock. He had found himself suddenly, embarrassingly, growing hard. But even then, he had known it was a purely physical response—a reaction to something he had never imagined he’d get to see, the shocking eroticism of Malfoy’s dark gold pubic hair and curved, heavy cock.

But the tattoo—that felt different. He didn’t deserve to get to see this, he knew. It wasn’t meant for him—it was something for Malfoy to keep for himself. But still Harry touched it, felt the reassuring rasp of Malfoy’s wand-calloused fingertip, whispered, “ _Lumos_ ” in Malfoy’s low voice.

A light blinked and spread, warm and golden, over Harry’s arm—and really, the spellwork was exquisite—and in the glow of illumination another tattoo emerged; four words, stark and simple. “ _I can’t be sure_ ”. Harry found himself blinking down at the words, swallowing around a lump in his throat as he remembered Malfoy with Bellatrix’s hand at his shoulder like a shackle, the weight of all his mistakes in his eyes as he looked down on Harry’s swollen, misshapen face. Malfoy’s sole act of bravery, his one small resistance, his first step away from his poisonous family.

The light faded fast, but the words continued to burn behind Harry’s closed eyes as he lay in Malfoy’s bed, trying and failing to get some sleep.

* * *

Harry was woken by a delivery owl at a frankly unreasonably early hour, and when he fumbled the window up and wrestled the package from a vicious-looking eagle owl, he found himself confronted by his own face grinning at him in a disconcerting array from no fewer than four different news publications. Because _of course_ Malfoy would take all the nationals, though how anyone could bear this much news, Harry couldn’t understand.

He started with a copy of the _Prophet_ , because he might as well get the worst over with. By the looks of things, they had caught “Harry” coming out of Tertullian’s Off-Licence late last night, looking more dishevelled than usual and clutching a bottle of Ogden’s—and not even the nicest Ogden’s, Harry had a better bottle at home which Malfoy would have known if he’d only _gone straight home_ like Robards had ordered, instead of stopping off to buy booze in front of a crowd of paps.

“Potter Under Pressure!” the headline read, which couldn’t be good, and the tagline underneath said, “Has Our Saviour Finally Snapped?”

Harry skimmed the article, which was full of worrying phrases like “offensive language”, “unfounded accusations”, and “maniacal grin”. The WWN had more of the same, whereas the Gazette seemed to be taking a sympathetic approach, implying that Harry was having some sort of delayed post-traumatic stress response.

Funnily enough, the _Quibbler_ had the most actual content, mostly because they had printed the dialogue verbatim, with descriptive interjections giving it the feel of an unfolding stage play.

Harry never gave quotes to the press, so they rarely had much in the way of truth to work with when they printed all their invasive, sleazy little tales about him.

Malfoy, however, had much to say to the reporters, and though Harry started off reading with pure disbelief, by the end he was laughing out loud, sprawled across Malfoy’s big bed with his own face giving him a jaunty wink from the front cover. Harry never smiled for paps, and seeing himself grinning (and in such a weirdly _Malfoyish_ way) was odd. He didn’t think he always looked quite that… well, attractive. Maybe it was the Malfoy effect.

Malfoy had strong feelings on the quality of the reporting in the _Prophet_ , it turned out. Harry particularly liked the bit where he said that if their invasive and underhanded tactics weren’t criminal enough, then the purpleness of their prose warranted a stay in Azkaban. The phrase “arse-licking Ministry toadies” was particularly evocative, Harry thought, so much so that he couldn’t even bring himself to care that Robards was going to Avada them when he read it.

And Harry thought that maybe Malfoy’s threats were a good idea. Maybe he _would_ actually sue the next time they printed lies about him, and maybe he _would_ give the proceeds to the Hogwarts Hardship Fund. Suck on that, Skeeter!

He managed to fall back to sleep after that, and even the fact that Malfoy had promised the _Quibbler_ that Harry would appear in a double-page spread for their Bottoms of Beltane feature didn’t manage to disturb his glow of satisfaction.

* * *

If Draco was a better man, a more moral man, he might have had misgivings about stripping his borrowed body naked before taking a long, hot bath. As it was, he had no compunction about doing just that, and watching himself in the mirror while he did it, too.

Potter’s bathroom was immaculate and surprisingly luxurious. A deep claw-foot bath that could easily hold two dominated the space, plush white towels heaped on a heated rail, and a finely milled soap that scented the steam with sandalwood and the faintest hint of rose. He hadn’t picked up on the rose, that night in the pub. Maybe he hadn’t been close enough, then, to find the hollows and dips where it lingered on Potter’s skin.

Draco had had to enlarge the paltry mirror though, to get a proper look at himself. He’d even used wandless magic to do it, marvelling at the roiling depth of power that radiated from the magical core so intricately embedded into Potter’s every cell—warm and welcoming like banked embers, yet still holding all the potential to rage like dragon’s breath—now subject to his own commands. It felt strange, to cast with another wizard’s magic, and he wondered if Potter had felt like this when he used Draco’s wand to fight a war; it was more intimate than slipping into someone’s still-warm bed, or tasting the inside of their mouth.

Naked, now, Draco stepped closer to the mirror, and pushed sadly necessary glasses up his nose. Mesmerised, he watched the flex of dense muscles, the stretch of golden-brown skin, the way dark nipples tightened in the wake of discarded clothes. Potter’s face was familiar—though it was bizarre to be the one looking out from behind those green eyes—but the rest of him had always been hidden from Draco, until now. He might never have admitted it to himself, without the proof before him, but Draco’s lingering childhood desire to know Potter had changed over the years. Worse now, than ever before, with the understanding they had carefully plotted between them since the war.

Potter had more scars than Draco had realised; more than the jagged fracture of lightning on his forehead, more than the punishing scrawl on the back of his right hand. There was an oval of pale pink scar-tissue under his clavicle, smooth like a burn under Draco’s questing fingertips (dark-skinned, strong, surprisingly soft). A star-bust of fractal white above his heart, slightly obscured by the dark hair that curled across his pectorals, but still stark against Potter’s bronze skin. There was the half-healed remains of the Grindlow bite he got on duty last month at the top of his thigh, pale pink and tender, and the faintest trace of long-gone grazes on those still-knobbly knees. Strange, that nobody had healed those childhood scrapes, Draco’s own body held no evidence of his early clumsiness and enthusiasm.

For a brief moment, Draco wondered if Potter would look at his own scars with the same meticulous attention—or worse, scorn or pity—but even that thought couldn’t keep him from tracing the trail of dark hair leading from a broad chest and strong core, down to the thick curls at the cradle of Potter’s muscled hips. His cock was dark, and heavy, and as Draco stroked one broad finger up its resting length it thickened, revealing the hint of pink under the delicacy of his foreskin.

What would his own pale fingers look like, grasping in place of Potter’s bitten nails and strong knuckles. What would Potter think, to know that Draco was going to sink into hot water, and bask in the scent of his soap while he coaxed this borrowed body into fullness, and heat, and pleasure?

* * *

This was torture. This was actual torture, so much so that Harry was pretty certain it was forbidden under Section 43c of the Wizarding Rights Act of 1837. Because he was very, very naked in Malfoy's unfairly fit body, and Malfoy was also very naked (in Harry's averagely fit body), and there was entirely too much stroking and rubbing going on for Harry's comfort.

“I still don’t see,” Malfoy murmured (and Harry knew he was murmuring, and not talking normally, because Harry could feel the low vibration of Malfoy’s voice where they were pressed chest to naked chest), “why Weasley would even be brewing a body swap potion.”

It was weird to see his own face so close up; to see Malfoy’s smile mischievous and beguiling on Harry’s own mouth, smell the sandalwood and heat of himself as Malfoy pressed nearer and started to stroke the antidote into Harry’s shoulders. And really, it should have been awkward, and not… well, not as nice as this. It was just that Harry had never really had anyone touch him like this before, all gently and carefully, as though he needed to be taken care of. The Dursleys certainly never had, and even though Harry supposed he could have found a few people who would happily slather the Saviour in oil, he'd never quite managed to get to that stage with anyone he could trust—anyone he _liked_ —before.

“George has a line of Wheezes especially for… adult use? Shall we say? They’re highly regulated, but very popular with a certain crowd.”

“Mmm,” Malfoy replied consideringly, and moved to Harry’s chest, his hand grazing the sensitive line of Harry’s collarbone and moving distractingly close to Harry’s nipple. Harry forced himself to stay still. They just needed to get the lotion applied everywhere the potion had touched, and George was fairly certain they’d be back to themselves again.

“So, this potion is for people who want to know what it’s like to fuck themselves?” Malfoy continued, and he glanced down at Harry in his body before looking back up and grinning. "I mean, I can see the attraction."

Harry rolled his eyes and slowed down the gentle circles he was rubbing along Malfoy's stomach. He made sure to linger over the patch of dark curls that ran down from just below his belly button, tugging the hair gently through his fingers. It was one of Harry's sensitive spots, and by the look on Malfoy's face, his body still responded the same way even if Malfoy's brain was in residence.

Malfoy cleared his throat.

"It's just… there's a lot of rubbing," Malfoy said, and Harry wasn't sure he'd ever heard that particular low, rough edge to his own voice before.

And when Harry replied, he didn't sound much better—Malfoy's usual crisp tones were muddied and darkened by something deep and ripe and wondering.

"We wouldn't need to do so much—ah—rubbing, if we'd taken the potion the usual way, in the normal dosage. It usually wears off by itself."

"Good to know, Potter," Malfoy replied, and then his hand was moving downwards slowly, and Harry felt his breath catch and stutter, and everything was very slow and quiet.

But then the green eyes looking at Harry started to fog up into that curious smokey grey that Harry liked so much, and Malfoy's skin started to fade to his usual ridiculous paleness, and then all of a sudden Malfoy was just… there, back to normal, with his sweet smattering of freckles and his funny crooked smile that showed his nice teeth, and a distinctly fonder expression than Harry had ever seen on his face.

"You're back," Malfoy said, and Harry knew he was himself again. He could feel the old familiar ache in the regrown bones of his arm that always bothered him when it rained, and the twinge in the knee that had taken a blasting curse on his first big raid after he joined the Aurors.

But just to be sure, just to be _absolutely_ certain, Harry reached up to touch Malfoy's face. And it was all correct, just as it should be.

It was his own capable hand, with its wide palm and strong fingers and curse scars, that touched Malfoy's cheek, that ran a finger along the aristocratic bridge of Malfoy's nose, that pressed a thumb dangerously close to the edge of Malfoy's open, panting mouth.

* * *

As scandalously fun as it had been to excoriate the press with Potter’s face—and as delicious as it had been to use his magic, to explore his body, and his home—Draco couldn’t help the relief as he watched his own features melt from Potter like snow under sunshine. The comforting warmth in his chest at the sight of Potter wearing his own face took him by surprise, his breath caught as Potter reached up to cup his cheek in one strong hand.

Potter’s face was open, achingly so, his green eyes wide and bright, his bottom lip caught in his teeth, a warm flush at his throat, his cheeks.

“I’m back,” he whispered, and Merlin, Draco had missed his voice.

He had missed all of Potter, actually. As curious as Draco had been, as shamefully indulgent of his own whims while he inhabited Potter’s body, he had been unsatisfied. It was Potter, Harry himself, that made this body beautiful, that brought it to life, that fueled the magic and the splendour of it. Here, now, naked and still glistening with the sweet-smelling lotion Draco had anointed him with, Potter was utterly himself.

Draco slowly took his hands from Potter’s body, but leaned his face, infinitesimally gently, into his warm palm. Potter’s thumb traced the very corner of Draco’s mouth, and the frisson of pleasure it ignited drew a gasp from him, rocking his whole body closer to Potter’s. How far, he wondered, might Potter allow this to go.

He sighed. “I think the rubbing worked, Potter.”

Potter simply hummed in agreement.

“I think,” Draco repeated, “that we should tell Robards and George that the antidote was successful.”

Potter leaned forward, pressed his forehead to Draco’s, his breath warm as he spoke, low and dark.

“I think that they can wait. I think we’re not done here.” His thumb pressed at Draco’s bottom lip, parting his mouth, and Draco let him. “I think that I want to know if you _touched_ yourself, while you were in my house.”

Of all the times for Potter to grow verbose and indulge in the most unstudied, but gutting dirty-talk, he chose the moment Draco was naked and already thrumming with want. But no matter how vulnerable or turned on he was, Draco was hardly going to spill the truth out. Not yet. So he stayed quiet, reached out to hold Potter’s hips, and tilted his chin for a kiss.

Potter kept his hand at Draco’s cheek, but his thumb dropped under his chin, pressing into the tender skin with restrained force. And then his mouth was on Draco’s, and his tongue too, and he tasted as wild and as enticing as his magic had felt when Draco had cast with it.

Draco tilted his head, wrapped one arm around Potter’s waist, and slipped the other hand up into that tangle of dark curls. Potter kissed him like he had been waiting for permission for days—barely restrained, hungry and encompassing—and with his whole body too, rocking their hips together, grasping at Draco’s shoulder with his free hand, pressing their chests together. Draco’s eyes were closed but he wondered at their contrasts; dark skin and pale, lean lines and sturdy muscle—and their similarities too; their scars and marks of war, their whorls of hair on chests and bellies and legs.

He was hard, and Potter was too, and they were still kissing, wet and slick and hot, and despite himself Draco thought he might be happy to stand here in his bedroom all day—naked and hard and aching, dancing on the knife-edge of sublime arousal and the screaming desire for _more_.

Potter broke the kiss first, and Draco could feel the wetness of their shared saliva cooling on his bottom lip.

“You did, didn’t you?” he asked, and Draco briefly contemplated punching him for trying to be clever, before he hooked his leg behind Potter’s knee and dropped him to the bed behind him instead.

Draco looked down at Potter, sprawled against his own crisp white bed linens, and palmed at his cock. He grinned when he caught that intense gaze dropping to his busy hand, and Potter bit at his lip, so expressive, so unafraid to feel.

“I will never tell,” he breathed, before he climbed onto the bed and settled into a straddle across Potter’s thighs.

Their cocks kissed between them as Draco leaned down to cover Potter’s body with his own, an altogether more intimate reflection of the pose that began their path to this moment. He inhaled Potter’s sigh, and rolled his hips as he dipped his head to take that plush mouth again, shuddering at the ease with with they moved together, galled at his own lack of surprise that they fitted together so well, that they were here, finally here, and it had only taken them walking in each other’s shoes for a day.

The proprietary way Potter took hold of his cock exposed the fact that Draco wasn’t the only one who had gone exploring while he lived in his borrowed body, and the ruthless press of Potter’s thumb at his frenulum spoke to a _thorough_ investigation. He couldn’t help the twitch of his hips, or the ragged moan that fell into Potter’s waiting smile.

Draco reached down to tangle his grip with Potter’s, and risked looking down at the sight of them, holding each other’s hands around the girth of their cocks. He pumped his hips, once, into the clasp of their combined gip, against the heat and hardness of Potter’s length, and then glanced back up to find Potter staring, his eyes fierce. He was caught, he couldn’t look away.

Potter’s other hand made its way up into Draco’s hair, tangling there, tugging on fine strands—and Draco held himself up with a hand pressed over that second lightning-bolt scar, the pounding of Potter’s heart a drumbeat against his palm. They were barely kissing now, panting into each other’s mouths, gasping half bitten-off oaths and low-voiced promises as they rutted and rolled against each other, into each other.

Draco was on top of Potter, but he was pinned by that heavy green gaze, undone by the silent declaration there. They would do this again. This was a first, not an only. And Draco might never have confessed it himself, not in words, but Potter knew—he might have known for some time now—and he didn’t need Draco to say a thing. There was no rush, no report to make, but the urgency of the moment coiled tight at the root of Draco’s spine, pooled in his belly, caught his breath in a vice of want.

Their cocks were slick now, pre-come easing their desperate thrusts, making the slide of Potter’s thumb under Draco’s foreskin an artful glide of jaw-clenching pleasure.

“Come on,” Potter urged, and his voice was low and broken, he was begging, and Draco wanted to drown in the sound of it. “Come on, I want to see you— _fuck_ —I want to watch.”

But Potter wasn’t looking down at his cock, his eyes were still fixed on Draco’s face, and they were so close he must look blurred—sweaty and gasping and grimacing with the agony of the climb to orgasm—but Potter’s focus was undivided, shocking in its intensity. He didn’t want to watch Draco’s come as it shot over dark curls and heaving stomach muscles, he wanted to watch _Draco_ as he came and that, that alone was enough to tip him into a spiralling freefall.

His back bowed, and Potter’s grip in his hair was all that kept Draco from throwing his head back, or hiding his face against Potter’s shoulder. Instead, he rode out his orgasm, hoarse from gasping and moaning, with the hot weight of Potter’s eyes on him. Exposed. Beneath his palm, Potter’s heart raced, and even as he shuddered with the aftershocks Draco gathered his wits to drag Potter into oblivion after him.

The heat of Potter’s come against Draco’s fingers as he shook apart beneath him made his cock twitch. The lush mess of tongue and teeth and soft lips as Potter kissed him—reckless, and eager, and earnest—settled in his throat, his chest, spreading warmth and a strange hunger for more to his fingertips and toes. Draco was utterly sated—pleasure and the tired ache of well-used muscles tingling as he collapsed onto Harry, turning his head to press his mouth to the pulse in his throat—but already he felt a hunger for more. For again.

He felt Potter speak, a hum against his lips, before he heard him.

“I did,” Potter murmured. “Look, that is. _Touch_. When I was you.”

Draco grinned, and nipped at Potter’s neck, and resolved himself to learn to cope with his particular brand of disarming honesty, and the way it lit something unbridled inside of Draco

Something lightning-bright, Lumos-bright.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, we'd love you to leave a comment _and_ have a guess at who wrote which POV!
> 
> _Come and say hello to us on Tumblr -[here for shealwaysreads](https://shealwaysreads.tumblr.com/) and [here for tackytiger](https://tackytigerfic.tumblr.com/)!_


End file.
